What though， for showing truth to flatter'd state，

    Kind Hunt was shut in prison， yet has he，

    In his immortal spirit， been as free

    As the sky-searching lark， and as elate.

    Minion of grandeur！ think you he did wait？

    Think you he nought but prison-walls did see，

    Till， so unwilling， thou unturn'dst the key？

    Ah， no！ far happier， nobler was his fate！

    In Spenser's halls he stray'd， and bowers fair，

    Culling enchanted flowers； and he flew

    With daring Milton through the fields of air：

    To regions of his own his genius true

    Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair

    When thou art dead， and all thy wretched crew.